Page 48 of The Prince's Captive

He let out a ragged sigh and snapped, “Illusionist? You call me ‘illusionist’ but I do not understand.”

“An illusionist is someone who uses magic to lie. You cast runes that make people perceive reality falsely. You hide the camp under them.”

But his brow furrowed deeper and his eyes darted over her, pausing on her side for a moment before shifting back up. “You spit this word at me. Like you… You do not have runes to create illusions?”

Was he just trying to distract her? Get more information out of her about her people?

“You illusionists are second only to your heretics in my people’s eyes.”

“You—Then—How—No. No.” He clenched his jaw so tight she expected to hear bone crack. “Your people—only real—so scar—Tell me it is not—They did not…”

He was focusing on her scar?

He could take his pity and choke on it. She didn’t need it.

“My people did not what?” Marcella couldn’t stop herself. She reached up, flashing the brand on her left wrist as she grabbed her clasp, undoing and letting half of it fall beneath the strophion wrapped around her chest to expose the scar to his sight. “This scar? No, it’s not an illusion. Yes, my people did give me a scar identical to Hypatia’s. And it’s an honor to have it. Better a scar I have in order to foil your plans for Hypatia than this brand you’ve forced on me. I would choose a thousand of these scars over your brand.”

He did not speak. He only stared at her with understanding dawning and horror flooding his features. It was better than pity at least.

“Are you done now that you are certain of where I stand?” She started to clasp the peplos shut again. “Not even your heretics can cut my hatred of you out of me.”

He stiffened and shook his head. “No. No—heretic, as you say.” He held up his left wrist. “Trying to tell you. This. No heretic because this.”

What?

Did she dare believe him?

No. He was just trying to appeal to her fears and her nature for faith.

“And being able to track me in case I managed an escape on my own is just a coincidence? Or am I wrong about that too?”

Gavril lowered his head. “Not… purpose. Just… part of it. Purpose is protection.”

“What for? Why would you have any interest in protecting me? Wouldn’t it just be easier to let me go?” He opened his mouth, but she answered for him. “No. You have some grander purpose in mind. I will not be your experiment to study any more than I will willingly be one of your heretics’ experiments.”

He swallowed and whispered, “You… You fear being studied?”

“What do you want from me?”

To her shame, her own whisper was as hoarse and broken as his.

“I have told you.” His hand twitched at his side, clenching into a fist and pressing into the tent floor. His voice hardened. “Above all, I want peace. Iwillhave it. No matter the cost. If I will always be hated in your eyes, then I shall be hated and have peace instead of hated without it.”

“You can’t use me to have peace. You said it yourself. No one is coming for me.” Marcella scoffed, shifting back. “I serve no purpose for you other than to be your plaything.”

He just lifted his chin and took a long breath. “You will see.”

She’d thought having him finally drop the act like she could trust him would be more satisfying. Now all she felt was hollow and cold and scared.

And they were alone. And he had no reason to pretend to be better than any other Inimicus.

What was he going to do to her now?

He nodded toward her bedroll and his accent seemed thicker than usual. “Long day ahead. Rest,mea sponsa.”

Nothing apparently.

He was saving it all for Areator then.

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